


Diarrhea Plague

by Flens Verpa (whydoihavethiskink)



Series: The Contagion Saga [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Accidents, Adultery, Anal Sex, Bed-Soiling, Cheating, Dark Elves, Desperation, Diapers, Diarrhea, Dickworms, Didn't Quite Make It, Dubious Consent, Elves, Emetophilia, Epidemics, F/M, Fantasy, Fantasy Races, First Time Bottoming, Holding, Incontinence, Internal Watersports, Line Desperation, Lolicon, Loss of Control, M/M, Norovirus, Omorashi, Other, Parasites, Piss Enemas, Poisoning, Recreational Bioterrorism, Scat, Shitting During Sex, Shitting on Penis, Shotacon, Soiling, Symphorophilia, Vomiting, Vomiting During Sex, both ends, public defecation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-05 22:25:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18375290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whydoihavethiskink/pseuds/Flens%20Verpa
Summary: A Dark Elf saboteur with powers over disease unleashes havoc on a small town, in the form of a stomach virus.(Notes: The "diapers" and "loli" tags only apply to chapter 2. "Shota" is one paragraph in chapter 4, starting with "The nursemaid," so it's easily skipped, and it only counts as shota because this is a scat+emeto kink fic. Dubcon is in chapter 7.)





	1. The Plague Arrives

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to Gurochan in September 2018, before it went on hiatus and switched domains. I finally posted this a) because someone else out there is going to be into this, it's the internet, and b) I need something to show to potential ghostwriting clients on this account.

Flens Verpa snuck into the village in the middle of the night. He located the central well--in a town this size, probably the only well. He carefully pried off the cover, making sure it didn't grate or squeak. Verpa concentrated for a moment, drawing on the power of his psionic dickworms shedding pathogens into his bladder. Fecal contamination would be more potent, but also more likely to be discovered, and baring his buttocks would make it harder to get away if he were caught. He pissed voluminously into the well, the virulent stream splashing into the depths below, before he laced up his leather pants and replaced the well cover. Then he headed to the tavern, to take a room for the next few days. The best part of this, he had found, was watching his little scheme play out.

Verpa checked around the outside of the tavern, just in case it had a well of its own. It did--a closed pump. He could perhaps infect it by shitting on the ground next to it (his recent viral proliferation was making his bowels rumble slightly), but the germs might not get as far as the groundwater. The privy, alas, was on the other side of the building, too far to easily contaminate the well. But several buckets had been left outside. Verpa pissed on all of them, making sure to spray the handles and insides. By morning, they would be dry, but still contaminated.

Verpa entered the tavern and paid for a late supper and a room. He had made sure to rub his own piss on his hands before he entered, to contaminate the money he paid with and everything else he touched. He made sure to stuff himself with bread and stew, to maximize the next part of his plan. The virus could take up to a day to incubate, and most of his victims would not even be exposed for several hours. For now, he'd act normal. Letting himself develop symptoms would spread the disease very effectively, but if he "got sick" too soon, he'd be blamed for bringing the plague to the village, and might be attacked by those still well enough to stand. This would all be much more enjoyable if they didn't suspect him.

The next day, Verpa pretended to be a trader. He laid out a mat in the market square, and sold trinkets and sewing supplies and nutmegs out of a box. Everything contaminated, of course. As the workday drew to a close, he noticed an increase in people suddenly ducking into alleyways or abruptly stopping and grimacing. All was going according to plan. Verpa resisted the urge to sensually rub his own stomach. His own bowels were loaded so full that his stomach was a bit swollen, the waistband of his leather pants almost uncomfortably tight, but he had stopped their movement, for now. He had not defecated in two days, and he would not for at least another. When he finally unloaded, it would be to maximum effect.

 

The sun began to set, and Verpa returned to the tavern for dinner. The patrons seemed oddly subdued. One of them suddenly threw up, turning and retching onto the floor, splattering the feet of several bar stools with barely digested food and beer. Several more guests covered their mouths or swallowed desperately; one made a mad dash for the door, farting loudly as he ran. The bartender started to say something about the man's tab, but broke off, and instead gripped his counter with white knuckles for several seconds before grabbing a bunch of rags and cleaning up the mess. Verpa pretended to ignore the commotion, stuffing himself with fatty sausages and several delicious peach turnovers.

Eventually, he could stand the pretense of indifference no longer and returned to his room. Verpa closed the door and then all but clawed at the front of his breeches, releasing his trapped, erect cock. He stroked himself avidly, needing both hands to cover the length of his monstrous, infested penis, recalling the scene he had just witnessed--a man vomiting helplessly all over the floor (no doubt infecting anyone in the room who was not already infected), and a dozen others barely managing to keep down their stomachs. He increased his speed as he wondered whether any of them had thrown up in their mouths and forced it back down, or if that one man had soiled himself before he could reach the privy. It had been torture, sitting through that, trying to act like an ordinary Dark Elf trader while knowing that every little nauseated sound or grimace was because of him, while his dickworms writhed with anticipation inside his prostate and his swelling member and he had leaked into his leather pants. Verpa imagined the farting man losing control of his bloated bowels, imagined the despair and the fabric discoloring as streaks of liquid shit ran down the man's pants, and he came with a muffled grunt, blasting thick ropes of diseased cum all over the floor and furnishings of his rented room.

Returning to his senses, Verpa swiped a trail of cum off one of the bedposts; in it wriggled a tiny, larval dickworm. He didn't bother to clean up his cum; the inkeeper was going to be in no condition to notice or charge him for it, and if anyone saw the worms, they would assume they were normal bugs that were trying to eat the semen. And of course, the stuff was as infectious as any of his body fluids; possibly more so, because it was the psionic dickworms that gave Flens Verpa the ability to control the diseases stored in his own body at will. He could chose, albeit without entirely perfect control, what pathogens to shed and when, and whether and to what degree he would experience the associated symptoms. He harbored almost every contagious disease capable of infecting the various races of elves (most of which infected other types of organic humanoids and even some base animals), and he was currently shedding a stomach bug in excess of what even the most violently ill of those he'd infected could be doing, and all he felt (for now) was a slight gassiness. That would change, later, but only because he wanted--craved--it to.

 

The next morning, the common areas of the inn were all but deserted. Sounds of retching, farting, crying, and liquid splashing came from behind closed doors. Descending into the tavern, Verpa found the inkeeper to be absent, and instead of hot breakfast, several trays of bread and a barrel of small beer. A listless maid scribbled down customers' charges on a scrap of paper. Verpa got a mug and a roll and pretended to merely pick at it. Eventually, the maid ran into the back room, one hand pressed to her mouth and the other clutching her stomach. Verpa hastily grabbed two large loaves of bread and retreated upstairs, leaving his half-eaten roll at his table.

 

Back in his room, Verpa locked the door and began to wolf down handfuls of bread. The fuller he was, the better for this. Then he relaxed his control on the stomach virus and his overstuffed digestive system and let the full symptoms develop. When he felt sufficiently queasy, he changed into a short linen nightshirt and once more headed downstairs.

 

Verpa ran down the stairs into the tavern in the middle of the (albeit smallish) lunch rush. He headed towards the door, both hands over his mouth, but froze in the center of the room, bending sharply forward. Diarrhea sprayed out of his exposed ass, dousing patrons and tables with liquid shit. He fell to his hands and knees, vomiting profusely and volcanically, spouting bread and bile several feet in front of him in a stinking pool. His bowels churned and cramped, forcing liquid through his guts that was nearly half virus by volume, and he expelled more diarrhea straight into the air, followed by a string of concussive farts. His stomach heaved again, and he vomited again, with less distance but just as much volume as before, and this time he began pissing as well. He collapsed flat on the floor, as if all his strength had run out (but really to hide his growing erection), writhing with the cramps and rubbing his pulsing dick on the slimy, wet ground, as he periodically exploded with more vomit and liquid shit. Surely the entire room must now be utterly coated with contagion. This was his favorite kind of release, spewing from both ends as his guts clenched and spasmed within him. He came, rutting into his own slick diarrhea--no one would notice his cum wasn't more vomit, mixed with the snot dripping from his nose.

A man was trying to help him up--"You poor bugger, let's get you out to the pump, get you cleaned up." The man tried to lift Verpa to his feet, but the strain was too much for his own sphincter. He ripped a massive fart, then loaded the seat of his pants with soft shit. "Ah, blast it. Let's just get you out of here." Verpa let himself be walked the rest of the way across the room, nightshirt dripping with mingled diarrhea, piss, and vomit. Just before they reached the door, he deliberately pissed and shat himself again, letting the filth run down his legs. Behind him, he heard several other people vomit. Verpa smiled. The whole town was in an ecstasy of violent contagion, and he had caused it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to makes suggestions or RP in the comments, as long as you're fine with me turning your contributions into chapters! (I'd own the chapters. I also won't automatically do a suggestion just because you commented. If you want me to ghostwrite, email me at whydoihavethiskink@yahoo.com.)
> 
> Maybe you're one of the afflicted villagers, or a hapless traveler or adventurer staying at the same inn, or struck ill on the way out of town. Of course, you've barely even seen Flens Verpa; you're too busy puking or squirting gallons of shit out your ass. Will you make it to a chamberpot or privy in time, or will you simply pull down your trousers or lift your skirt in the middle of the street, or lose control and shit your pants? Will you puke in a bucket or bowl, or on the floor, or on someone? Who will you infect? It's your call!


	2. Little Elf Girl Gets Sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little High Elf girl's experience with the diarrhea plague.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loli and diapers in this chapter. The diapers themselves aren't the erotic focus; she's just that sick.

(Inspired by the last image in this Pixiv photoset: https://www.pixiv.net/member_illust.php?mode=manga&illust_id=60644425)

 

Aerin was playing tag with several other children. Despite being one of the smallest children, she was also one of the fastest. Today, her stomach felt a little weird, but she ignored it, focusing on dodging the boy who was It.

Suddenly, her guts cramped so sharply she could not run anymore, and a few seconds later she felt a sudden, terrible fullness in her rectum. Barely in time, Aerin pulled down her pants and lifted her tunic, squatting right there in the middle of the street in front of all the other children, loudly squirting brown liquid from her tight anus. The smell was abominable, and Aerin gagged and threw up, adding another filthy puddle to the street.

Eventually Aerin's bowels felt empty, if sore, and she pulled up her pants again. The minute she stood up, though, she felt dizzy and had to sit down, barely missing the puddles of puke and diarrhea. One of the older girls asked if she needed help getting home. Aerin nodded, and the other girl helped her up and steadied her until they reached her cottage.

 

"Aerin, you're home early!" said her mother, surprised.

"I threw up," said Aerin.

Her mother put her hand on Aerin's forehead. "Goodness, you're burning up! Let's get you to bed."

Aerin allowed herself to be led to her small pallet and changed into a nightgown. The sheets felt cool, and despite her aching stomach, she quickly fell asleep.

 

She woke up in the middle of the night with a horrible pain in her stomach. Aerin tried to go to the privy, but before she could even get out of bed, she lost control of her bowels and exploded diarrhea all over her bed. Despite her gigantic bowel movement, the pain did not stop one bit, and Aerin soon threw up over the side of her bed. Aerin cried, feeling unutterably filthy, occasionally heaving up another wave of vomit. It hurt so much!

Aerin's mother came in with a candle. "Sweetie, are you okay?" She saw the mess, and her face twisted with a combination of disgust, resignation, and sympathy. "Oh no, sweetie, we'll get you a bath and change the sheets. It'll be alright. Wait here just a couple minutes, and I'll have hot water ready."

Aerin watched, still sobbing occasionally, as her mother put fresh wood on the fire and hung a large pot of water on the pot-crane and filled the washtub most of the way with cold water. When the pot of water came to a boil, she poured it into the washtub, making a bath that was warm but not too hot, and poured the last cup or so of hot water into the last full water bucket, so Aerin could rinse the soap off after. Then she put on an apron and carried Aerin over to the tub, so she wouldn't make messy footprints on the floor. She helped peel Aerin out of her soiled, shit-soaked nightgown and made sure she was safely in the tub, before she went to change the bed.

Aerin stopped crying as she soaked herself in the warm water; she was still small enough that she could fit almost her whole body inside the washtub. She scrubbed herself with lye soap, cleaning the filth off her body. Soon, though, she felt a too-familiar twist in her bowels, and began to panic.

"Mama! I need to poop again!"

Mama ran over to the washtub, carrying another bucket. She had placed it near Aerin's bed earlier; the girl simply hadn't seen it in the dark. Aerin stood in the water, holding her stomach and on the verge of tears. Mama set the bucket on the floor and helped Aerin sit on the edge of the washtub as she emptied her inflamed, gassy bowels into the bucket.

Aerin finished washing and dried herself off. Mama brought her a fresh nightgown and what looked like a pile of cloth.

"What's that, Mama?"

"It's so you don't mess the bed again if you're too sick to get up."

Aerin began crying. "I don't want to wear a diaper! I'm not a baby!"

"Oh, sweetie, of course you're not a baby. You're sick; it's nothing to be ashamed of."

Aerin calmed down and let her mother pin the diaper on her--it was really a spare sheet that her mother had folded into the right shape, not one of her little brother's baby diapers. Aerin was small for her age, but she was still much bigger than a toddler. Then she put on the nightgown over the diaper, insisting on doing it herself. After all, she was still a big girl! Mama tucked her into her freshly changed bed, and Aerin went back to sleep.

 

Aerin was glad of the diaper later that night, when her bowels rumbled again. She still felt horribly sick, but this time, instead of panicking, she could just relax and let the soft mush thunder out of her ass. She vomited a few more times (managing to find the bucket), but by morning that had stopped, leaving her with just bloated, runny bowels. Mama kept her diapered, adding a few real diapers to the seat of her sheet-diapers to prevent leaks, and Aerin spent the day resting in bed, massaging her aching stomach and gurgling intestines and occasionally peeing or expelling gassy diarrhea into her diapers. The next day, her diarrhea gave way to soft lumps, and mama let her wear regular panties again.

Most of the other children had been sick, too--almost the whole town, in fact. Apparently a grownup had even had an accident in the middle of the Tavern! That made Aerin feel better, if a grownup had really lost control, too. She was still feeling a bit weak and her guts were still a bit achy and sloppy, but she was glad to be out of bed and outdoors. Her brother had caught her stomach bug, and he was crying all the time because his tummy hurt and he was a baby. At least he already wore diapers, anyway.

Aerin was startled out of her thoughts by her stomach rumbling. She rushed to the privy to unload. She was feeling better, for sure, but maybe she wasn't quite done with taking massive, urgent shits.


	3. Ill Manners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wealthy merchant takes ill at a banquet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commentors wanted more puke and a rich guy infecting his household. This is the first half of that.

In a town this size, there was not much that could be considered “society,” but if one were to look for it anyway, anyone local would point to Porcius Ennius. The portly human merchant had leased a sizeable plot of land from the local lord some years back, and had built a country estate on it. During the summer season, when cities turned into stinking pest-heaps, he entertained scores of fellow merchant princes and minor nobility, and in the winter, he traded off the hosting of the solstice feast each year with the aforesaid local lord. Yes; anyone who was anyone in this sheep-shearing backwater, and quite a few other people besides, simply had to be seen with Porcius Ennius.

Not that the man himself disdained the common crowd. While he rode horse for hunting or long travel, he preferred to go about town on foot, ever mindful of his common (if comfortable) origins. Market day was hardly complete without Ennius stopping and chatting at all the stalls, be they run by locals or visitors—and today was no exception. Ennius bought some nutmegs from a dark elf tinker, had his shoes polished by a local urchin, and put in an order for all manner of vegetables with the grocer. He exclaimed at silks peddled by northern wood elves, who claimed to have bought them from the spider people of their home country, and bought a few bolts for his household.

Then Ennius returned home, though the market was nowhere near closing. Tonight was a big night. Lord Crestley and a prominent grain trader named Arkov were to dine at his house, and everything must be perfect. The swan had been delivered that very morning. His cooks had been working since yesterday to make centerpieces out of pastry and marzipan, or cutting beets and turnips and radishes into star-shapes and rosettes. Even in the front hall, as he entered, Ennius could smell the dizzying array of spiced sauces, piquant with wine and saffron. Ennius popped into the kitchen to hand the nutmegs to the cook (who thanked him), inspected the preparations so far (exclaiming at the unbelievably realistic pastry sheep, symbolizing the main export of Crestley Dale), and then retreated upstairs to record the day’s expenditures in his ledger. Such a good price for those nutmegs. It must have been a bumper year for them. Ennius realized that he did not, in fact, know how nutmegs were cultivated. There was a song about a nutmeg tree, but it also grew pears, so that probably wasn’t reliable. He resolved to ask the trader if he saw him again.

The eventual banquet table was as delightful as expected. The assorted gentry dined on rich soups and artfully cut roast vegetables. Ennius began to think he had inadvertently overindulged; by the time the main course came out, he was feeling rather stuffed. He stood up to carve the roast swan stuffed with boiled goose eggs—and abruptly vomited all over it and the table.

It was a veritable fountain of puke, abundant and multicolored from what he had eaten during the first courses. For a few moments, Ennius just stood there in shock, staring at the disgusting mess and the ruined dish. Then the dizziness hit him, and he dropped the carving fork and sank back into his chair. As he did so, something squished. Ennius realized that he had also shat himself.

The other diners looked on in horror. As the smell hit, several of them also vomited, most of them fortunate enough to aim at the floor, but a couple instead sprayed their fellow diners or spewed into their plates. A few more fled for windows or privies, hands pressed to their mouths or clutching their stomachs. Ennius recovered himself enough to run for his room, but not fast enough—everyone saw the huge brown stain on his trousers. Needless to say, the evening was utterly ruined.

Ennius staggered up the stairs. He no longer cared about the trade contract or the inevitable rumors. All he cared about was not vomiting again before he reached a chamber pot. Hit with a sudden cramp, he stopped and bent double, pressing his lips tight. A splash of bile filled his mouth. He tried to swallow it back, but the pain just increased, and the taste made him gag even more, and he could hold back no longer, spraying the stairwell with bitter vomit.

Ennius’ guts still roiled and churned. He realized, with sudden panic, that he was about to have it the other way again. Half-blind with fever, he clambered up the last of the stairs, letting slip several miserable, involuntary farts as he did so.

The floor of his room seemed to pitch like a ship in a storm. Ennius dragged the chamber pot out from under his bed, nearly falling over. He tore off his soiled trousers and underwear, throwing them across the room, and squatted over the chamber pot, clinging to the bedpost for dear life. He released.

A torrent of brown water burst from Ennius’ rear, interspersed with thundering farts. It burned like aqua fortis, and his colic redoubled as his bowels cramped on pure liquid. In agony, Ennius vomited again, puke dribbling down his chin to puddle on the floor. As he did so, he let go of the bedpost and fell to his hands and knees, then on his side, still spraying diarrhea out of his inflamed anus. With the last of his strength, Ennius climbed into bed and rang the servants’ bell. He felt his body expel another wave of shit into the bedsheets, but passed out before he could feel disgusted about it.

Meanwhile, the dining hall had descended from chaos to chaos. Those afflicted were rapidly losing control of their stomachs and bowels, and those still hale were utterly at a loss for what to do. Caught in impossible execratory quandaries, people’s instincts misfired. One man emptied a soup tureen, then unleashed his thundering bowels into it—willing to dump soup on the floor, to catch his shit. A woman heaved the contents of her stomach out the window, then turned around, still puking, lifted her dress, and shoved her buttocks over the windowsill, spraying virulent diarrhea like an aqueduct and almost falling out the window herself! Arkov, who had just rescued the poor lady, suddenly stopped in his tracks, groaned, squatted, and released a torrent of watery filth all over the carpet. It had obviously once been cabbage, and the smell set everyone to a fresh wave of puking. Lord Crestley himself lay prone on the floor, bawling like a baby and shitting and vomiting by turns, seemingly without volition. There was not a dry spot on the floor; it was all an inch deep in diseased expulsions. Plague had turned the great house into a sewer.


	4. Soiled Livery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After cleaning up the mess of the previous day's outbreak, several of Porcius Ennius' servants fall ill. His son is also very sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My fucking god I'm so horny. Also, check out [This](https://www.pixiv.net/member_illust.php?mode=medium&illust_id=21004882) and [this](https://www.pixiv.net/member_illust.php?mode=medium&illust_id=1198461) on Pixiv; they were very inspirational!

A maid resignedly cleaned Ennius’ room and changed the sheets, wearing gloves and washing herself carefully afterwards. It didn’t matter. She had already inhaled more than enough infectious particles. The next day, her stomach was rumbling and queasy. Still, work was work, and there was quite a lot extra of it with the recent disaster, so she put on her uniform and reported to the head housekeeper. She was assigned to help clean the great hall, which was still in some disarray.

The smell was diminished from last night, but still made her gag a little. She swallowed it down and began cleaning, scrubbing the floors with a bristled brush and lye soap. Her discomfort increased gradually, but she bore it until two servants carried a soiled tapestry right past her. The stench was unbearable, wafted right into her face, and she vomited all over the freshly cleaned floor.

“Not you too,” said the housekeeper, who was supervising the cleanup effort. “Go to your quarters and rest. Can you stand?”

The maid nodded, dumbly, feeling a little better for having emptied herself, though dreadfully ashamed for having done it in front of so many people. She left the house and went to the servants’ lodge, massaging her stomach as she walked. She felt gas gurgling in her bowels, and knew her illness was far from over. However, when she detoured to the privy, she could not force anything out. The smell of the cesspit beneath it just made her nauseated and dizzy, so she left and went to her room, even as the churning of her bowels increased. She fell asleep cradling her tender, bloated stomach.

She woke up with an unbearably full rectum and ran to the privy. Halfway to the small outbuilding, her pain was too much and she squatted, not even bothering to pull up her skirt, and released her liquid agony as cramps raked her guts. She spent what seemed like an eternity crouched there, staining her linen shift with brown filth as a pile of mush built on the ground under her, before the uncontrollable expulsion finally stopped. Even then, her bowels did not feel empty, though she strained as hard as she could, figuring that her clothing was already ruined. Queasy and humiliated, she re-entered the lodge, changed her clothes, and went back to bed.

However, she got very little rest that night, having to get up constantly to vomit or shit into her chamber pot. Each shameful expulsion was horrifyingly painful, wracking her stomach with unbearable spasms. One time, she even had to grab a second chamber pot as she sat on the first, as she violently ejected stinking filth from both ends.

At evening her roommate had come back, and she was little better. While her pain seemed to be less than the first maid’s, she could not stop shitting, getting up from a full chamber pot only to immediately slam her ass down on another one. The first maid had to empty the reeking vessels for both sick women, despite her own desperate illness. Often the smell was so bad that she vomited into the chamberpot she was supposed to be emptying, filling it further until it sloshed sickwaste onto the floor as she carried it. Once, she even soiled herself during this duty, as the strain of lifting the overloaded chamberpot forced her abused sphincter to open.

 

Meanwhile, the housekeeper had begun to feel some discomfort of her own. Eventually, her bowels clenched with unmistakable need, and she rushed to the privy. She hastily bolted the door and pulled her skirt up, there was no time to sit down. Ass hovering over the privy, she released brown sludge into a sea of worse filth. Her position was tiring her, but the torrent seemed to have no end. Unwilling to sit down, suspecting she had splattered the seat, the housekeeper instead braced one foot on the rim, keeping the other on the floor, as she continued to expel noxious brown liquid from her aching guts.

Back in the house, the cook, who had been preparing gruel for her sick master, was suddenly gripped with knife-sharp cramps. Feeling like the Great River was on the brink of exiting her rear, she ran outside and yanked the doorhandle of the privy, only to find that it was locked. Franticly, she knocked on the door. Inside, someone said, “I’m sorry! I’m not done yet!”

“When are you going to be done?” pleaded the cook in desperation. Her sphincter felt like it was about to explode.

“I don’t know! I’m afraid I’m very ill.”

“I’m sick too!” sobbed the cook. At that moment, she could no longer control her inflamed bowels, blasting a torrent of liquid shit down the back of her dress. She fell to her knees against the door and continued to shit, alternating forceful streams of brown liquid with thunderous, agonizing farts.

Eventually, the housekeeper managed to empty her bowels. Her belly still felt bloated and churned like the bottom of a waterfall and she was feeling very feverish, but for the moment she could shit no more. She tidied her skirts and wiped down the privy seat, then opened the door. The sight and smell of what the cook had done hit her, and she vomited explosively, spraying the other woman with her undigested, fermenting puke.

The cook had thought her day could not get worse, but now she suddenly found herself drenched in someone else’s stinking sickness. Still continuing to shit—there seemed to be no end to the hurricane in her guts—she also vomited in disgust, intentionally directing the wave of bile at the housekeeper’s shoes. An even more forceful wave of diarrhea exited her as she heaved, actually squirting through the fabric of her skirt to land over a foot away.

 

Upstairs, the nursemaid attempted to comfort Ennius’ young son. Little Marcus was normally a sweet and cheerful boy, always eager to play with his father (as he had yesterday), but now he was inconsolable, only stopping his bawling when he was vomiting up what little the nursemaid could coax him to swallow. She had entirely given up on diapering him; as soon as she wrapped him in a fresh clout, he soiled it again. Instead, she had placed a layer of towels on the floor, placed a chair on top of them, stripped to her own shift, and was now bouncing the wailing, naked toddler on her knee, attempting to hold him over a chamberpot whenever he began to puke or shit. This was usually a futile effort, since half the time the boy would fountain vomit while diarrhea simultaneously rocketed out of his bottom. After the third time the child threw up a medicinal potion, the nursemaid sent a footman to fetch a cleric for magical healing. Marcus was terribly young to be so desperately sick, and the nursemaid dreaded the thought of what could happen to him.

The footman ran to the healer’s shrine with utmost speed. However, by the time he arrived, he was feeling an urgent need to evacuate his bowels. Staying true to his duty, he attempted to ignore it. Fortunately, the cleric was at the shrine, not out on a visit.

“The merchant Ennius’ son is gravely ill and in need of your assistance,” the footman told him, shifting over to one foot to let out a silent fart. He succeeded in keeping it quiet, but immediately felt something more substantial enter his rectum and quickly clenched his anus shut. If anything, he felt even more desperate than he had before the fart.

“As I’m sure you have noticed, many people are ill today,” said the cleric. “Why should I leave the shrine of healing instead of you bringing the boy to me?”

“Please,” begged the footman, as more gas gurgled back up through his system, fighting a wince at his predicament. “He’s not two years old, and he’s been purging violently for hours and can’t keep food or medicine down. He may be mortally ill. And his father is a very wealthy man.”

“All right,” agreed the healer. “But not because of his father’s station. A child that young must be given healing above all others, and will not take a great amount of power to heal from a common flux besides. I only hope that what has struck this town truly is a common flux, and not the dread Hundred Days’.” As he spoke, the cleric was gathering healing crystals and herbs into a knapsack. “Please escort me to Ennius’ mansion.”

The footman tried to keep his composure on the way back, but the old healer walked slowly, and he soon realized that this return journey would take thrice the time it had taken to run to the shrine. All the while, his bowels gurgled and cramped, sloshing and bubbling, a pressure like a sheep’s bladder had been inflated inside his fundament. He felt his belt become noticeably tighter as his stomach swelled from the gas; his ravaged intestines were unable to digest anything he had eaten in recent days, and instead it fermented and compounded the gastric torture.

An eternity seem to pass as they crossed the town, the healer shuffling and the footman desperately clenching his sphincter. Each step increased the searing agony, jarring his bloated belly and sloshing the vile liquid distending his colon. He began to sweat, grinding his teeth at each wave of knifelike cramping. At last they passed the gate to the great house, but too late. The gas had stretched the footman’s guts to their limits, felling him with a pain unlike anything he had known before or could describe, and which could not by any effort be denied. Despite his frantic clenching, his ring inexorably opened, and a cacophonous deluge of boiling liquid rushed out of his anus. It seemed like it would never end. The footman stood slack-jawed, dazed with agony and relief, as he soiled his livery, filth running down both legs and staining the tail of his coat, polluting the expensively dyed cloth with vile brown.

“You should have told me you were ill, too,” said the cleric, pulling the footman from his defecatory reverie.

“I will live without help. Save your power for the child, and others who truly need it.” His words were interspersed with moans of almost orgasmic relief. The footman felt warmth trickling down the front of his legs. In the ecstasy of his fecal release, he had pissed himself as well. The wet stain soaked the front of his uniform, complementing the ruin of the back.

And he was still shitting. He had been holding that massive liquid load for over an hour! In a futile attempt to minimize the damage, he pulled down the ruins of his pants and squatted. Dark brown sludge smeared his buttocks and legs and pooled in his smallclothes, mixed with anal mucus, while a stream of brown liquid continued to pour from his anus.

The healer soon managed to stabilize the child. He was still ill and loose in the bowels, but he could keep down his medicine and willingly nursed, and was probably done throwing up. The nursemaid was able to give him a bath, diaper him, and put him to bed. As she tidied up the room and sent the soiled towels and diapers to the laundry, she felt a wave of convulsive movement in her own organs. She’d known it was only a matter of time. The child had been puking and shitting on her for hours, and there was simply no way to avoid infection. The nursemaid finished cleaning the sickfilth from the walls and floors, occasionally stopping to press a hand to her stomach. Finally, she checked on Marcus one last time—he was sleeping peacefully—and went to the garderobe at the end of the hall.

At first she only managed a small piece of solid shit, but there was obviously more to come. She sat patiently on the toilet, leaving her anus relaxed and open, as she felt the eventual vanguard of her illness rumble through her queasy bowels. She rubbed her belly almost sensually, the same way she had for Marcus earlier in the day, to encourage the gas and caustic liquid to move through her colon.

All at once, a gush of liquid shit practically fell out of her anus. The nursemaid had not been pushing or straining in the slightest; it was as if the lues infecting her had a will of its own. The initial eruption was followed by a fart that lasted nearly a minute, and then another wave of stinging, explosive diarrhea. She felt weak and dizzy from the volume of her dysenteric evacuation, and soon realized that she was about to vomit. Kneeling in front of the toilet, she leaned over the seat, and the smell of the rotting waste at the bottom the shaft was more than enough to bring the contents of her churning stomach up out of her mouth. She vomited until nothing came up despite spasmodic, painful heaving, and sat back down on the toilet to release a third wave of pure liquid diarrhea, which had rushed to her anus from the violent clenching of her belly as she turned her stomach inside out. She leaned against the wall, still uncontrollably dry-heaving, which made this wave of diarrhea come out in a series of forceful spurts. Suddenly, one of the heaves wasn’t dry, and she projectile vomited pure bile onto the wall next to the doorjamb, where it dripped down to the floor. The nursemaid let out a sigh of resignation as a series of gurgling farts mixed with watery shit tore out of her anus. She had a long, painful night ahead of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say thank you to everyone who's left positive comments or kudos on this fic. I've been into epidemic scenarios for as long as I can remember, but I was ashamed of it for years and then afraid of posting anything about it because I was worried about harassment. I was already working on getting rid of that shame and fear (well, still keeping a healthy dose of caution), but you guys have really helped speed up the process. Thanks to you, I've even gotten up the nerve to create a discord server for this kind of scenario! [Here's the link.](https://discord.gg/4jrt3C)
> 
> If you read this fic after the link expires and still want to join, leave a comment or email me at whydoihavethiskink@yahoo.com .


	5. Love, Sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An illicit late-night tryst goes horribly awry.

Selina Ennius crept up the stairs, feeling her way instead of lighting a candle, because she did not want anyone to know that she was out of bed. Fortunately, getting away from her husband had been easy; he was still quite sick with the flux, and in no shape to be making marital demands of her, which he sometimes did and (of course, unknowingly) spoiled her plans. While their marriage was still amicable, Porcius was traveling so much of the time, and a woman had needs. And sometimes mutual needs became a more lasting attachment. Selina knocked on the butler’s door, two light, barely audible raps.

The door opened. “Come in, my lady,” the butler greeted her. Inside, the room was filled with lantern light.

Inside, Selina stripped off her robe and nightshift. As she folded the garments, her stomach felt full of butterflies. Tonight, her lover was going to penetrate her anally—something she had never before done. Gairog was always showing her things she had never before done, though, and they usually turned out splendidly in the form of several orgasms for her, so she trusted him utterly. Human society really ought to take a cue from dwarven culture, she had decided. Smiling nervously, she knelt on the bed, and Gairog knelt behind her, rutting against her buttocks as he dipped his fingers into a pot of grease and then slipped them into her asshole.

Selina drew in a sharp breath. The digital penetration did not hurt, exactly, and the lateral stretch was nothing compared to childbirth or even losing her virginity (perhaps because there hadn’t been any pot of grease when she lost her virginity, just a fumbling boy who barely knew one end of his dick from the other), but it was definitely an intrusion, and her sensitive channel burned as the unaccustomed texture entered it. The burning was somewhat pleasurable, though, even if it made her stomach flip-flop, and Selina felt her cunt go slick in the space of a second. A touch to her clit, she thought, and she would be on the brink of orgasm.

“Fuck me, Gairog,” she pleaded quietly, for fear of waking anyone.

“Fuck you where?” he asked. He loved making her say naughty things.

“Fuck me in my asshole.”

“I’m already fucking you, with my fingers.”

“Fuck me with your cock, in my asshole, Gairog, please!” Her arousal was becoming maddening.

Gairog withdrew his fingers, slicked an extra coating of grease over his cock, and  then thrust himself into Selina’s willing, waiting anus. This time, Selina actually did feel a bit stretched, but it was only pleasurable, as Gairog’s thrusts rubbed her sensitive ring and bottomed out by hitting the base of her womb. The force aggravated the strange feeling in her guts, but the pleasure was so overwhelming that Selina paid that feeling no mind. It was probably simply that she was not used to anal sex, and her body had to be taught it didn’t need to push the intrusion out.

She was rudely disillusioned by a terrible smell. A moment later, Gairog abruptly pulled out of her ass, and, horrified, Selina felt herself release a torrent of watery shit all over the bed. Behind her, she heard Gairog vomiting, and between the sound of it and the stench of her anal eruption, the oddness she had been feeling in her midsection since she’d begun to undress solidified into unmistakable nausea. Selina puked up a huge puddle of bitter bile, ruining the other half of the bedding. As she heaved convulsively, her bowels cramped, and more stinking diarrhea shot out of her ass.

Curling up on her side, attempting to avoid the puddles of filth as she clutched her suddenly aching stomach, Selina saw Gairog, holding onto the bedpost and leaning over a puddle of his own vomit, still retching. His still half-hard cock was smeared with her dark shit. She had shat all over his dick!

“Dammit, woman,” said Gairog, finally getting his stomach under control. “I’ve spent the past few days scrupulously trying and praying not to get sick, and now you bring that vile flux _into my bed_?”

“I didn’t know I was sick!” said Selina. Her stomach gurgled, and she winced as more sloppy shit filled her rectum. Instinctively, she tried to hold it for a few seconds, but realizing the bed was already ruined, she relaxed her anus and let the infected fluid rush out onto the blankets.

“How?!”

“I thought it was just nerves, and then I thought it must be the new penetration acting on my bowels! It felt so good even so that I was willing to endure it!”

Gairog softened at this implicit praise. “Regardless, you can’t stay here. You’re lying in your own filth, and I can’t think of an excuse for you to be in my room beyond the truth. Are you done…expelling for the moment?”

“I think so,” said Selina, trying to sit up. A wave of dizziness hit her. “Wait, no I’m not!” The last word was muffled as she vomited explosively into her own lap, simultaneously leaking still more brown liquid from her anus. The sight set Gairog off again, and he too chucked up several waves of chunky yellow bile onto the floor.

“I hate being sick,” he moaned, holding his stomach and almost crying. “I really hate being sick. And I’m probably going to lose control of my bowels, too.”

Selina was experiencing temporary relief now that she had finished purging herself. “I need to get back to my room, somehow.” Her clothes had been spared the diecstomatic apocalypse, but she herself was covered in stinking sickfilth, and that would be hard to hide.

“I’ll carry you,” said Gairog, momentarily shaking off his own misery. He opened a chest at the foot of the bed and pulled out a spare blanket. “I’ll say I found you outside your son’s room, collapsed with fever, if anyone sees.”

This was easier said than done. Each step jarred Selina’s stomach dangerously, and Gairog felt weak and dizzy from his own purging, while his bowels were beginning to rumble. He suspected that even if Selina had not expelled her sick stomach and intestines all over him and his bed, he would still have been violently ill before morning; and he regretted his harsh words to her, said while she must have been in terrible agony.

They reached Selina’s room without anyone seeing them. Gairog laid Selina down on the bed, still wrapped in the blanket, and she groaned and asked for her chamberpot. Gairog brought it, and she rained vomit into the vessel. As she did so, a loud flatulent noise erupted from within the blanket, and Gairog once more smelled a horrible fecal odor.

“Leave it,” said Selina, exhausted and hoarse. “I’ll ring for one of the maids. You need to get out of here before someone suspects us.”

Although he was worried for his mistress, Gairog was glad of the excuse to leave. The infirmity of his guts had just reached his rectum, and he was capable of little more than the effort of holding it in. Each step up the stairs was torture, as his bowels cramped and coiled, begging him to release the noxious fluid torturing their inflamed membranes. Only the sheer strength of his dwarven sphincter enabled him to reach his room without spilling liquid shit all over the floor, but once inside, hit with the yet-uncleaned stench of their mingled vomits and Selina’s waste, he lost control of his anus, soaking his pants and splattering the floor with brown filth. Without even caring enough to wait for the flow of diarrhea to stop, Gairog lay down on the last clean patch of floor, vomited once more for good measure, and passed out.


	6. Company of the Damned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A band of orc mercenaries leaves Crestley, having been infected by the diarrhea plague. They're in for a horrible night!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know it's a kink when you get horny _writing_ fic!

Gorg trudged through the mud, cursing the weather. Why did it have to go and rain? He and several of the other orc mercenaries had wanted to stay in town for a while, but Ashlor had said no, they’d find more and better jobs someplace bigger. So they’d stopped for lunch, then headed out. Not an hour later, the rain began, though it was sunny and cloudless when they set out. At this rate, Gorg thought, one of the packhorses was going to get stuck.

His stomach gurgled. Probably the cheese he’d had for lunch; cheese sometimes put Gorg’s stomach off. He liked it well enough that he usually ate it anyway. Ignoring the discomfort, he kept walking, occasionally letting rip a foul fart, though the sound got lost in the squelching of mud sucking at dozens of feet.

It soon became apparent that they could not reach Three Rivers by nightfall, or even shortly after. Ashlor told them to look out for a place to camp. Soon they found an old growth of trees, the thick trunks far enough apart to admit tents, and the boughs dense enough to keep out the worst of the rain. Gorg was on tent detail, while some of the other orcs went to gather flat stones to make a firebed.

By the time the last tent was up, Gorg urgently needed to relieve his bowels. He went behind one of the trees, just outside the circle of firelight, and undid the seat of his armor. He squatted and opened his sphincter, letting his shit out onto centuries of dead leaves, where it landed with a splattering sound. It smelled sulphurous and foul, and its passage was laced with dozens of loud, bubbling farts. Yup, that cheese had gone right through him for sure. He still felt a little gassy, but he wiped himself and headed back to the fire, looking forward to Crestley-baked bread and stew made of jerky and dried fruits.

The mercenaries and the copse were all the same level of damp, so there was no point in heading to the tents early. Instead, the orcs huddled around the warm fire and sang songs, as they drank tea brewed from oak bark, a cheap substitute for real tea leaves, but with the benefit of not keeping one up at night. The tannins could still be hard on the digestion, though. Gorg felt his stomach protest as he downed another mug of the bitter liquid. Warmth won over a few cramps and gurgles, though, and Gorg refilled his mug. Might as well hurry that cheese out of his system before he had to spend another day with it.

As Gorg drank his third mug of oak tea, a tanky warrior named Harkor stopped singing to belch, then puked over the end of the log he was sitting on. Baz, their scout, yelled “Dude, where’s the flask?” thinking Harkor must be drunk. Drink _was_ usually the reason for puking, with this crowd. When one’s job involves slaying things for a living, pretty soon little else will turn stomachs; one gets used to the smell of leaking entrails.

Harkor gave Baz the middle finger, then puked again. And again. And kept on puking. The volume seemed impossible. That wasn’t just his dinner; it looked like at least half his lunch, and he was still emptying his stomach onto the forest floor, seemingly with no end in sight.

Everyone had realized by now that Harkor was seriously not okay. Ashlor was running through all their food and water systems, trying to figure out which one had gone bad and if it would affect the rest of his men. The pump at the inn where they’d filled their canteens had looked safe, far away enough from any privies, no one had eaten anything raw in town, and they’d boiled all the stream water they’d had tonight, making stew and tea.

“Maybe he got mud splashed in his face,” said Larsh, the sniper. “There’s horseshit and cowshit and fuck knows what else in road mud. Or maybe it got on his canteen.”

“If that’s the case, probably half the rest of us are in for it,” replied Ashlor. He looked very uneasy, perhaps with more than just concern for his men.

Gorg felt a gurgle in his stomach, and reconsidered his earlier diarrhea. What if it wasn’t the cheese? What if he’d caught this barf bug, too? And he’d just had three mugs of oak tea, on an already tender stomach. This could be bad.

Harkor finally stopped bringing up his…probably yesterday’s dinner, judging by the size of the puddle in front of him, dry-heaving several times before the spasms subsided. He put his head between his knees for a few minutes, then went to his tent.

“Someone bury that,” ordered Ashlor, pointing to the puke-puddle. Gurg stood up, figuring he’d probably already caught whatever it was. Baz did, too, probably feeling guilty for teasing Harkor. They grabbed the shovels that had been used to dig the firepit and scooped dirt on top of Harkor’s vomit, slightly muffling the smell.

“I’m going to go take a piss,” announced Larsh. The sounds that came from behind the tree a few moments later suggested he was doing quite a bit more than that, with gurgles interrupting the patter of a stream of liquid.

“Yeah, he’s definitely got the runs,” said Drog, their sorcerer. Being one-eighth dragon, he had an enhanced sense of smell—probably not an advantage, tonight. “Two copper he pukes, too.”

“Two copper we both puke,” said Gorg. “In fact, I’d bet on all of us hurling. Ashlor’s not looking too good, and you’ve got the super-smellers.” Drog always hurled whenever they had to go in spider lairs, being especially vulnerable to their foul stench, and the others found this a great source of amusement. Gorg got up, heading in the opposite direction of Larsh’s farting.

“Where’re you going?” asked Baz.

“To take a shit,” replied Gorg, disappearing into the darkness. He was feeling uncannily tired, and there was an undulating sort of malaise in his abdomen. This time, his bowels were even looser than before. He could not see what he ejected onto the tree roots, but the sound was like he was pissing out of his ass. The awful smell confirmed that he was not. He tried to piss out of his dick, too, but only a small trickle would come out, despite all the tea he had drunk. Gorg mopped himself up, asshole stinging, then went to his tent, which he usually shared with Drog. He barely managed to strip off his armor, then flopped into his bedroll.

Gorg dreamed he was crawling through a cave. Great subterranean rivers threatened to flood the cavern, or plunged down dizzying drops to splatter into churning pools. Something in the heart of the mountain seemed to be pulsing, warping the dank air around him and making him dizzy. But he had to go on, had to find the exit.

He woke as a particularly sharp cramp pierced his belly. Gorg realized that his bowels were painfully full and desperately needed to be emptied. Drog was missing, but there was a puddle of vomit on his bedroll.

Gorg stumbled out of his tent, clutching his stomach, and made it to the trees. Fortunately, his armor was off, so he just had to part the slit seat of his undertrousers before letting reeking liquid squirt out of his ass. His stomach churned, and he vomited, an endless flow of sweet-bitter chunky slop, as he continued to paint the tree brown with projectile diarrhea.

A moan caught Gorg’s attention, and he looked up, still spilling vomit from his lax jaw. Ashlor squatted in a patch of moonlight, also being sick. The mighty warrior clutched his stomach and cried, as he explosively purged his inflamed guts from both ends. The puddles of filth shone in the pale light, showing that the entire area around the stricken fighter was swamped with enteric discharge.

Gorg fell to his hands and knees as his entrails spasmed. An especially strong wave of puke fountained out of his mouth, while a giant fart boomed out of his ass, resounding in the stillness of the forest. Its passage was followed by more runny diarrhea, a comparative trickle, but still impossible to stop for long. With great difficulty, Gorg held his runny squirts and ran to the campfire, finding the log Harkor had puked over that evening, and sat on it, ass hanging over the back, so he could finish emptying his gurgling bowels in relative comfort, sitting firmly as he massaged his aching stomach and occasionally vomited between his legs.

Drog came stumbling back from the other side of the fire, where he must have been explosively relieving himself, but as he smelled Gorg’s expulsions, nausea visibly seized him, and he bent forward and puked violently, spattering a thin stream of pure stomach acid onto the dead leaves. His stomach muscles wrenched with such force that he pissed involuntarily, soaking his leggings with clear liquid.

(Being a sorcerer, not a warrior, Drog wore leggings and a short tunic instead of armor—not an advantage, tonight, because while warrior’s undertrousers were made for relieving oneself with a minimum of de-armoring, a sorcerer’s garb was essentially ordinary clothes, sometimes bolstered with enchantments, so the wearer had to pull down the leggings to shit. Drog had stripped out of his tunic, probably sparing it from his messy sickness, but had slept with his leggings on.)

Defeated and wet, Drog flopped down and sat on the forest floor, directly in front of his pool of piss and vomit, because it really no longer mattered whether his pants got damp. He couldn’t go back in the tent; he’d vomited first in there, while Gorg was still tossing and clutching his belly in his sleep, and the smell would be unbearable to his sensitive nostrils; out here was quite a lot more vomit, but at least the open air would dissipate the smell.

Baz also came into the firelight, weaving a bit. He saw Gorg sitting on the log, and his ears twitched in realization. There really wasn’t much point to avoiding soiling the campsite, anyway, just habit. He sat down next to Gorg, parted his undertrousers, and released a sputtering stream of sickly liquid from his bunghole. From six inches away, Gorg could feel the heat coming off the man; Baz obviously had a spiking fever adding to his infirmity.

Larsh ran stumbling out of the tent he shared with Harkor, one hand pressed to his mouth and the other between his buttocks. He tripped over one of the seating logs and fell forward, landing stomach-first on the log with a muffled “oof!” His bloated abdomen, filled to bursting with corrosive liquid, all but exploded, like poorly tied blood sausage stomped in the middle. Larsh’s projectile vomit hit the edge of the campfire, while his diarrhea hit the flap of his tent, streaking down the canvas.

Baz giggled, a hysterical, fever-wrought sound. “You can tell he’s sick cuz he missed the fire. Only time I’ve ever seen him miss a shot.” Baz kept giggling, ignoring Gorg and Drog’s looks of worry, until suddenly his laughter was cut off by a fresh wave of sour vomit cascading from his mouth.

Larsh continued to heave and squirt, convulsing and rolling around with pain, screaming wordless howls and obscenities between waves of blood-tinged vomit. Whether it came from his stomach or if he had simply bit his tongue, Gorg couldn’t tell. Instead of thinking, he vomited again—this time he was sure he tasted some of yesterday’s cheese, now curdled and sour—and simultaneously shat, listlessly dribbling diarrhea out of his lax anus. A series of painful cramps momentarily turned the dribble into a brief watery rush, and then it was back to dribbling again. Larsh was still screaming, involuntarily spraying diarrhea all over the camp, while Baz had actually begun singing a song about it, in his fevered delirium.

“When you eat a bloody steak, feel your pants about to break, diarrhea! Diarrhea!  
“When you land upon a log, and your guts are all a-slog, diarrhea! Diarrhea!”

Was ‘a-slog’ even a word? Gorg didn’t know, and decided he didn’t care, as his head spun and his intestines tried to invert themselves and exit his asshole. Peering at the world sideways, having bent forward to rest his head and arms on his knees, he saw Harkor come out of the tent—apparently woken by Larsh’s screaming—completely smeared with shit. He must have soiled himself shortly after he’d fallen asleep, exhausted by his mammoth bout of vomiting, and then tossed around in it as he slept. As the vile smell of Harkor’s fermented shit reached them, both Gorg and Drog vomited again, though for Gorg it was more of a weak trickle, almost effortlessly sliding up his much-traveled esophagus. The retching almost felt like normalcy, after so much vomiting. Drog continued to dry-heave, curling up in a ball, and fouled his leggings with a squirt of muddy shit.

Baz was still singing, despite having fallen to the ground, and it made absolutely no sense. Gorg joined him, grateful for the fever warmth as he shivered, too dizzy now for the log and finally uncaring about the mess he was making with his ravaged bowels. His stomach cramped, and he began to cry, though he was too dehydrated for tears. This was hell, and they were all in it, Gorg thought, as he shat himself, spasmed, and shat himself again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Check out my epidemic/scat discord server!](https://discord.gg/h6DYxDY)


	7. Ill Intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flens Verpa meets a like-minded young man and "convinces" him to be his accomplice. Or, in other words, the porn has an explosive attack of plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's not as much porn in this chapter, but it sets the frame for the next work. It's also chronologically the last chapter; while I may go back in and add something in the middle, someday, this one will stay the last.

The diarrhea plague was winding down. Flens Verpa had “recovered,” and had made a reasonable profit as a trader. Everyone wanted ginger roots when their stomachs were off. He carried his coin instead of trading it for other goods; he had no fear of bandits. Should they attack, he would simply hand over the money, and wait for them to fall ill so he could take it back, and whatever else they had, besides. It was time to move on. This town was too small to risk another plague in, and he’d heard some interesting rumors from up north.

As he passed by the public privies, Verpa saw a young dwelf peering through the boards of one and masturbating furiously. Verpa strode up, grabbed the young man by his collar, and dragged him into a nearby alley.

“Now what do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

“Peeing! I was peeing!” protested the lad.

“If you were peeing, outside of a row of perfectly good privies, one of which had its door open, why do you look so much like you’re about to piss yourself now?” asked Verpa. “You and I both know you were spying on someone and ringing your dingle.”

The young man covered himself with his hands, at Verpa’s pointed look.

“Was it a lady in there? Or another lad? Just pissing, or more? Did they have the flux?”

“A lady,” squeaked the young man. “With the flux. I’m sorry, sir, I’ll never do it again, just let me go, please!”

Verpa laughed. “Oh, I hardly disapprove of your interests. There’s nothing like watching a stream of liquid and farts pouring out of someone’s arse as they moan with cramps.” (The young man’s cock twitched, and Verpa knew he had hit his mark.) “But public privies? From the outside? That’s an amateur move. And right after a plague, too. Not a serious illness, for most people, but probably a few babies or old people weren’t strong enough to stand the purging, that’s just the odds. They catch a mule like you getting off on that, and they’ll think you had something to do with it. And they’re disgusted, they’re grieving, so they won’t wait till the next Assizes—though jail is pretty fatal on its own. No, they’ll wait for no judge and jury before they do this.” Verpa let go of the boy’s collar and pulled down his own, exposing a thin white scar where his neck met his jaw.

“Are you a…a ghost?” asked the young man.

“No, stupid, I’m not a ghost. I survived being hanged. They were going to draw and quarter me, so they hung me to strangle, not break the neck. I played dead, going limp long before I ran out of air, so when they cut me down to disembowel me, I was still just barely conscious. They cut my bonds, not being professionals, because they wanted to spread-eagle me first, and I summoned up my will and vomited in their faces and ran off, half blind from hanging and fever, getting up again each time I fell because I knew if they caught me again I’d be dead for good, and when I couldn’t get up, I still scrabbled forward on the ground. As luck would have it, when I came to my senses I was in a sheep pasture with no one around who’d attended my execution—the shepherd having been out with the sheep the entire afternoon. But anyway, moral of the story, if you want to see people getting sick, don’t make yourself sick first and shit in the well to pass it on, don’t get caught shitting in wells, and don’t masturbate obviously if you’re contaminating a well or watching someone shit.”

“You…caused the flux?” asked the young man, still trying to absorb everything he had just heard.

“Yes. And you’re coming with me to help me do it to the next town.”

“Why?”

“Because I doubt I’m the only one who saw you, and _you_ most certainly wouldn’t survive a hanging. I heard Lord Crestley shat himself at a banquet and cried like a baby. You think he’ll be merciful, after that, if he thinks you’re behind it? And besides, I’ve never met anyone before with my predilections. It could be interesting.”

“Can I go home first and get my stuff?”

“No.”

“But—”

“No. I’ve got coin enough. You don’t want anything that ties you to your hometown, anything that could tell someone who you are or where you came from. You don’t get anyone knowing that you’re with me, or why you’re with me. Come with me, right this moment, or I’ll drag you to the nearest guard and tell him I found you masturbating while spying on an outhouse and saw you acting suspicious near the well the night I came into town. I’m a respectable trader, and I fell ill very publicly on the second day of the plague. I’ll be believed.”

“All right,” said the dwelf. “Not like there’s much around here for a whoreson anyway.” He squared up his shoulders and followed Flens Verpa out of the alley, then out of Crestley Dale.

 

They were well outside the town, past the sheep pastures and into forest, when Flens Verpa spoke again.

“What’s your name, mule? Doesn’t have to be your given one. In fact, it probably shouldn’t.”

“Flitch,” said the dwelf, after a short pause. “Because I’m a pickpocket.”

“A good one?” asked Verpa, doubtfully.

“Good enough,” said Flitch.

“For Crestley, anyway. And I think it’s pronounced ‘filch.’”

“What do I call you?”

“I like to call myself ‘Flens Verpa.’ It’s something of a joke in a language you’ve probably never heard of. Of course, I haven’t actually used that name while traveling for a long time. Too many people, humans especially, know what it means, and it stands out. Currently, I’m doing business as ‘Ivak Assan.’ You’ll need to come up with something, because ‘Flitch’ isn’t a name most people trust.”

Flitch bit his lip, thinking for a minute. “‘Unfaad Muller.’”

“Solid. Unmemorable. The first name’s uncommon, but not out of place for a dwelf.” Verpa changed the subject. “Did you have the flux, back in town.”

“Yeah. Threw up for half a day, then it switched to the other end and I had to sleep lying across the seat of the privy.”

Verpa laughed. “I wish I’d seen that. Turns me right on. Did purging give you a cockstand?”

Flitch gaped.

“Well, did it?”

“…Yeah. Being sick was awful, I hated it, but at the same time, just the thought that I was throwing up or shitting, that I couldn’t control my bowels—I got so hard I was leaking.”

“That’ll do for a start,” said Verpa.

“Are we going to infect Three Rivers?”

“Not going out of our way to, no. I suspect some other travelers from Crestley have already brought it there, anyway. It’s still contagious for a few weeks after you get better. They’ll use the privy, touch something, someone else touches it, licks their fingers to turn a page or eats with their hands…now they’ve got the flux.”

“I’m still contagious,” whispered Flitch, pupils dilating.

“Yes, you are. But remember: nothing stupid. Three rivers is too close to Crestley for us to start another outbreak, and the flux is probably already there. Content yourself with not washing after you scratch your ass or use the privy. Fortunately, no one expects good manners from a mule.”

“Got it, said Flitch, looking crestfallen.”

“There’s a campsite just up ahead. We’ll stay there tonight. There are some things I need to teach you that I can’t here on the road.”

 

The campsite had obviously been used recently. Flens Verpa sniffed a large patch of disturbed earth near a log, and chuckled. “Looks like some travelers got the flux here,” he said.

“Really?” asked Flitch, excitedly.

“There’s shit and vomit all over the ground here. They buried it, but not deeply, and it hasn’t had time to decay. I’d say they left yesterday or today. I bet if we look around further from the firepit, we’ll find more puddles they didn’t clean up.” As he spoke, Verpa was undoing his pants. “But for now, there’s something I need to do.”

Flitch’s eyes went wide as he saw Verpa’s infested penis. He trembled in terror, but his pants tented. “What the hell happened to your dick?”

Verpa laughed, seeing the boy’s reaction to the writing worms wriggling through his flesh and poking out of his pisshole. “It’s a parasite. You could say it’s my source of power, like a familiar or a cleric’s symbol.”

“Am I going to get worms in my dick?”

“Probably not. They’re tailored to my body, and you’re half dwarf, and…what even is your other half?” He peered at the dwelf. “Wood elf? Orc?”

“Dunno. Don’t know who my father is.”

“‘Whoreson’ was literal, then. Anyway, you’re probably one of those two. I doubt you’re all the way grown, yet, so that makes it harder. As for what else is getting harder,” Flens Verpa gestured to his penis.

“Are you going to jerk off?”

“No. I’m going to fuck you.”

“It’s not going to fit!”

“Oh, it’ll fit.” Verpa grabbed Flitch and bent him over the log, ignoring his kicks. The boy was obviously turned on, and if he was going to be traveling with Verpa, he needed to know his place. Besides, this particular fuck was for his own good. Verpa spat on the boy’s anus and pushed his leaking dick in.

Flitch screamed, but there was no one to hear him. That massive, infested cock was splitting his insides, and it burned like fire, especially since his bowels and ring had barely recovered from their bout of acid diarrhea. He felt something wriggling inside him as the dark elf paused, bottoming out. He wondered if that was the worms, and the thought made him impossibly hard, even as his heart raced in terror.

Verpa took his time enjoying the boy’s virus-laden channel. He could easily give this boy so many spectacularly interesting diseases…but no, that was for later. He restrained himself. Instead, as he thrust, he focused his will, and one of his three mature dickworms crawled out of his penis, invading the boy’s colon. He mentally watched it crawl slowly through the boy’s large intestine until it reached his appendix and settled there. Verpa felt drained, but kept on thrusting. Within a few days, triggered by the absence of the missing dickworm, one of the others would grow to full size, fully restoring his power. Thrusting a few more times, he splattered wormy cum into Flitch’s bowels. Then, to drive as many worms as possible far up into him, he pissed, distending the boy’s stomach with a massive load of urine.

Flitch had begun stroking his dick as Verpa raped him, cheek pressed into vomit-scented soil. Masturbation made the pain a bit less, and if he had to lose his anal virginity, he might as well at least try to enjoy it. He could tell from the heavy breathing when Verpa came, but he was not prepared for the horrible, filling pressure that followed. Maybe the worms were making him come an impossible amount? No, Verpa’s balls were big, but they weren’t that huge. With a thrill of delight, he realized that Verpa was _pissing in him_. The thought of all that dirty liquid inside him, sloshing around his insides and liquefying his shit, put his cock on the brink of explosion. Maybe Verpa was infecting him with something new! It would suck being sick, but maybe this time it would be less painful than before. Maybe he could get used to vomiting and liquid shits. And as Verpa pulled out of his ass, Flitch realized that he _was_ shitting liquid, right this minute, and he came all over the log and the infected soil.

Verpa waited for Flitch’s orgasm to stop. “I’ve given you some of my power,” he said. “The worms can’t live in your dick, and you can’t learn to mentally control them, but their base species is capable of living in your intestines. You get some protection from the most dangerous aspects of diseases, and I can control whether you will be sick or well at any given time. In an indirect way, I can control most of your bodily functions just by focusing my will. You’re bound to me, by your own actions—because you peeped in that privy—and don’t you forget it.”

“So, what happens now?” asked Flitch, squeezing more mingled urine and shit out of his ass, along with a few larval dickworms.

“First, we spend a few days in Three Rivers, which we’ll reach sometime tomorrow. My worms give me powers to take in disease without being harmed by it, unless I wish to experience symptoms, so during that time, I’ll trawl around the slums, fucking whores and digging through dungheaps, to see if there are any new strains of diseases.” It would also give him time for the new dickworm to mature, but he wasn’t about to tell Flitch about the temporary weakness. Trust had to be earned. “After that, we’ll go up north. There are rumors of a new plague in the jungles, with conflicting reports of its symptoms. Sometimes it sounds like simple cholera, other times a hemorrhagic fever, other times there are no details at all. If it’s something new, I want to catch it. If it’s something old, we can take advantage of the chaos and start building your repertoire of diseases. Once your worm gets used to you, I can have it make you shed any disease you’ve had since I put it in you. Right now, all you’ve got for it is the flux, since it’s still in your body. I’ll make you catch more diseases as we go along, and the worm will protect you from any permanent harm from them, and then I’ll be able to make you contagious with them any time I want.”

“Can I get tailored worms someday, too?”

“The tailor is dead. I don’t know if I’d be able to replicate what he did. In any case, I don’t intend to go that way for quite a while, at present. There’s not much worth doing past the rubble desert.”

Flitch’s eyes went wide. The rubble desert was the subject of terrible whispers. It was said to be an artifact of the mythic Collapse. It was said to be haunted by the ghosts of the Ancients. It was said that metal men roamed the ruins and killed all outsiders. It was said to glow with foxfire and sicken those who defiled its cursed stones. It was said that evil wizards lived there and summoned demons, and would trap children and turn them into horrid beasts. He stared at Verpa, still half-naked, and at the strange parasites crawling in his penis. Had a wizard made him like that?

Of course, Flitch himself was also a gruesome pervert, without needing any worms to make him one. Other than the times he’d watched other kids shit worms, anyway. Worm shits were almost as good as diarrhea. Maybe it was because he was a dwelf. Lots of people were hybrids, with parents who were two different kinds of elves, or an elf and a human, or a human and a dwarf, but dwelfs were rare. Most were miscarried, and the rest were sterile, misshapen things who grew up either monstrous or sickly. Flitch had mostly been the former, with a mismatched face, limbs far too long for his torso, and joints that bent to freakish angles. He hadn’t walked until after his second birthday, because his ankles and knees were too weak to hold him steady, but other than that, he had been almost perversely healthy, until Flens Verpa and his flux had come to town. Some property of his hybrid skin had made him nearly immune to hookworm, and so he’d grown faster and stronger than children his age. Still, he’d been fascinated by the other childrens’ frequent diseases, their colics and rashes and worms, even by his mother’s sores when she caught the pox from one of her customers and it broke out all over her body. And then a few years ago, he’d started having dreams about the diseases, and he’d wake up with his prick stiff or with his useless seed all over the bed.

Maybe his mysterious father had been an evil wizard. Maybe that explained it. He was a dwelf, a thing that was not meant to be, and his father was an evil wizard, therefore he was evil, and delighted in others’ misery. And now he had a magic worm rummaging around in his belly. Flitch realized he could either kill himself, or embrace his perversity. “I’ll be evil, then,” he thought. Someday he’d get this stomach worm out, and get his own special worms for his dick, and go about infecting whoever he chose, but until then, following Flens Verpa was probably the best deal.

Verpa, for his part, wondered if he’d made the right decision. The boy was nearly his twin in perversity, true, but so young and impulsive, likely to get him into trouble, and quite visually unusual. It might just be hero worship, though, having met someone who shared his secret lusts for the first time. Time would tell. If the boy proved to be too much trouble, Verpa could always command the worm to withdraw and then give the boy some disease he’d be happy to die of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! For more of this kink, [join my discord server!](https://discord.gg/h6DYxDY)


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